Breaking Point
by Besina
Summary: Sherlock finds a kindred soul in dire need of help. Characters: Sherlock, John, prominent OC Friendship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Emotional distress which may be triggering for some.


Breaking Point  
>Written by Besina, February 2012<br>Rated: T  
>Characters: Sherlock, John, OC<br>Story Type: Friendship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort  
>Warnings: Emotional distress which may be triggering for some.<p>

Disclaimer: I do not own the following characters (except for the occasional OC) and mean no copyright infringement by bringing them out to play, nor do I make any money by writing this fanfic.

A/N: Not my best work by a long shot, but something I had to write.

* * *

><p>There was a tentative knock on the door.<p>

Sherlock raised his head from where he was lying on the couch and called, "Come in!" He rose to a partial sitting position.

The door swung open. A young woman stood there, composed, or at least trying to be. There was a nearly undetectable quaver in her voice and her hands shook, slightly, though not apparently from fear. _Why then?_

"Sherlock?" she inquired bringing him back from his mental permutations of possibilities; it had been a slow week, any puzzle was welcome. _A rather informal greeting for a first meeting, wasn't it?_

"Yes, come in." He stood up, strode across the coffee table, robe flapping behind him, and issued her into the room, guiding her over to the couch, the only uncluttered surface left in the room.

She sank down gratefully into the cushions, her eyes downcast, without speaking. They waited in silence for a moment, his observations clicking into place. This woman, as composed as she was, was showing signs of shock. _How interesting. She's trying very hard to hold herself together. Why?_

"Tea?" he offered, already sinking down next to her. He already knew she'd refuse: _not a tea drinker._

She bypassed the question and merely stated, "I'm not here for a case," briefly looking up at him.

"No, I thought not." He confirmed, waiting.

"There's just not many of us, and very few advertise the fact. I need someone who might have an inkling…or could extrapolate…I'm at a loss. I need help." He could tell these last words had cost her dearly as her shoulders drooped, disappointed in herself for having to ask.

She looked straight at him, allowing him to read her eyes: _somewhat shut off, but showing huge amounts of pain, anxiety, fear. _

_Wait. _

_Why was she letting him read her like this? Most people looked away. They didn't like it. And here she was almost demanding that he did. There's something she needed to tell him, he needed to see. Something she couldn't get across any other way._

_Ah! There! There it was! The closed-off look and the calculations, he could see the calculations automatically ticking over in her mind…she couldn't shut them off any more than he could._

"You're like me." He stated, almost under his breath, absentmindedly letting his fingers slide down her face, keeping her head turned toward his.

She broke eye contact but seemed relieved, sinking back against the cushions. "Not entirely. Certainly not as brilliant." She cleared her throat and continued, "Not to say I'm not smart, I am, quite. But nowhere near your range.

She sighed. "Consider me a cautionary tale."

"You've been hurt." His tone was such as to imply that this was not feasibly possible. "Not physically, I can see that, but badly, and repeatedly. You're traumatized. " he stated gently, genuinely interested but confused.

_That doesn't happen; we don't allow it. It's almost our defining characteristic._

He focused his entire attention on her: her head bent, staring at her hands; her entire body subtly quaking. He was sure what she was, just as certain as he was of his own reflection; it's just as if this one had suddenly sprouted four heads.

_An anomaly then. Well, they were anomalies already, so an anomalous anomaly. A very dangerous thing to be, it would seem, from all outward appearances. _

_Shaking; that's new. Oh, yes, stupid of me. Must get a blanket; should have kept the orange one._

He draped the chair's throw over her shoulders as casually as he could. She didn't fight it.

_This was intriguing. It was also vaguely terrifying. One didn't come upon other sociopaths often, and even when one did, they were never in what could be deemed 'crisis'. They were in control: of their environments; of their peers; of their emotions, whichever ones they had allowed to remain. This didn't happen. This shouldn't happen. But it had. __**This must be fixed**__. Dear Lord, this must be fixed! Think of the implications for himself if it couldn't be; if he were left suddenly vulnerable and unable to recover from it. _

Suddenly he comprehended the terror she must be experiencing_. _He ran his fingers apprehensively across his lips, thinking. _How__ had this happened?_ _Data, I need data. But not now, can't push. She's already at a breaking point…_

"What do you need?" he asked bluntly.

"Make it stop." Her voice was pleading. "Please, make it stop. I hurt. It's everywhere - I can't shut it out, I can't make any of it stop!

_She wasn't injured, not recently anyway. The emotions then. No filter? Yes, surely that would be hell._

"Please, Sherlock," she breathed, her eyes locked back on his, "I wasn't built for this … I'm broken." Unknowingly, her eyes flashed to his desk, a false bottomed drawer, where he'd recently secreted away what remained of his drug paraphernalia.

No, he thought firmly, not that. _Though he would have to relocate it, if it was that obvious. A sedative though, that wouldn't be inappropriate, frankly, in this situation, it was practically mandatory._

"Stay here." He commanded, although he was certain she wasn't going anywhere.

She lapsed back onto the couch, into the warm space he'd been occupying, pulling the throw blanket around her.

He took the stairs up to John's room by twos, opened the door, and began a systematic search of the doctor's room, disturbing as few things as possible. He knew the doctor would have some. He also knew that he would have hidden them well away from Sherlock. _Books? Too obvious. Sherlock might read one. False-bottomed drawer? Pathetic really. What had he been thinking using one himself? New train of thought: Where might one look for drugs? Or rather, where __wouldn't__ Sherlock look for drugs?_ A smile flitted across his lips. That bastard! John was getting better at this.

Sherlock strode confidently to the bathroom, examining the medicine cabinet on the wall. Fixing his fingers in behind the lip, he lifted it gently out of its resting place and lowered it to the floor. A small space behind the cabinet afforded him what he was looking for. He set the bottle on the sink, withdrew a few tablets then set everything back in order. He'd tell John later. Right now he had a patient to attend to.

His feet moved quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen where he poured a glass of water, and came back to his charge.

"Sit up, take these," he proffered the pills, the glass.

"What are … "

"Tsk," he cut her off, "if I tell you, you're more likely to try to find more, yourself. I can't have that. Suffice it to say I've found them helpful on occasion. Down the hatch!" he declared, quickly popping them in her mouth before she could get a good look at them, followed by a brisk swig of water to wash them down, some of it spilling from her lips as she choked them down.

She raised her arm to wipe the water from her chin, eyes questioning.

"Do you trust me?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.

"Then come here," he said, in a strange, almost compassionate way.

He sat back down on the end of the couch, kicking his legs up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankle and flicking on some bad telly, apparently just for background noise, as it was far too inaudible to pay attention to, and lifting his arm out of the way.

She slowly lay back down on the couch, head on his lap, blanket pulled up to her chin, while he began to prattle on about particular cases and aspects of identifying different types of mud, ash and vegetation. His fingers absentmindedly brushed the hair from her forehead, and after a few minutes he felt her shivers cease. Her pupils constricted and looked unfocusedly at the ceiling, as he continued in his reassuring drawl, none of which she could follow anymore, but it was a nice sound.

* * *

><p>She wasn't sure if she'd been daydreaming or if she'd lapsed off to sleep for a while, but the ruckus was jarring.<p>

"Sherlock!" The doctor had come home and, amazed by the tranquility of the scene, had come over to introduce himself. He'd seen Sherlock, still preoccupied, absentmindedly brushing his long fingers across her forehead, reciting obscure facts; then the pleasantly vacant look in her eyes, her contracted pupils, shallow breathing.

Sherlock, not looking up from the telly, but not missing a beat, replied, "It was necessary, John. And no, I'm not using. Find a new place to hide your morphine, by the way."

"How much did you give her?" he demanded.

"Enough to do the job, no more." He glanced up at John, who was still glaring down at him. "You know I calculate dosages with extreme care. She's fine, John."

"Who is she? Where'd you find her?"

"She came to me, John, I didn't find her. As to who she is, I don't think she found that important enough to share. I'm just as curious to find out some more about her as you are, but I doubt she's quite ready to talk yet."

"Not in that state, no," replied John, still feeling sanctimonious.

"I wasn't talking about the morphine. She's on the edge, John, about to break, and I need to find out why. Apart from a middle-class upbringing, that she took the mid-morning tube to get here, she's new to London and that her mind has been under assault for some time, I failed to glean anything else of value. She's not ready to talk about the rest yet, and as interested as you or I are in finding out, we mustn't push."

"If she's that delicate, Sherlock, we need to get her some help, therapy at the very least."

"You say therapy, but you mean psychiatric ward," Sherlock very nearly snapped at him.

"Trust me, John. Right now what she needs more than anything is one of her own. Therapists would not understand, or worse, may try to 'fix' her, doing more harm in the process.

"No. While tending those old wounds on her arms may be more your territory, this is _very much more so **mine**_." With that, he fell silent once again, continuing to stroke her head and watch the television.

"One of her own? You're related, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's lack of response told the doctor the discussion was over, at least for now.

* * *

><p>Time passed. She wasn't sure how much had gone, but they sky was darkening when her gaze once again fastened on Sherlock, her head still on his lap.<p>

He glanced down, briefly, "Feeling better?" he asked.

"A little," she admitted, still feeling shaky, but not quite as desperate. "Tired though."

"Come on then," he said gently aiding her sitting up, and flicking off the television. "To bed with you, I'll sleep on the couch. No worries."

He ushered her into his bedroom, briefly leaned down to remove her shoes then moved her to the center of the bed, drawing the covers over her.

"Don't," came her voice, "please don't leave."

"What's wrong?"

"I can't explain it very well… I feel adrift, panicky; it's … it's _very unpleasant_." It was an understatement, certainly, but a socially sanctioned one.

Sherlock doffed his robe and climbed in next to her, wrapping his arms around her torso, spooning her.

Her eyebrows raised, surprised. "I thought you didn't like physical contact."

"John's blog?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Well, yes."

"He doesn't always get everything right. It's true, I don't like being touched while I'm on a case – I find it distracting. I also don't endure it from people I find stupid, petty or boring. But in general, I'm not adverse to it.

"Does it help? Touch is supposed to be calming."

She nodded.

"I'm nearly always on a case, but not now," he finished, leaving her to state: "Then I must not be stupid, petty or boring yet."

"No," he yawned again, gently adding "not yet."

Sleep came, quickly and dreamlessly; the two of them wrapped together, and she feeling protected for the first time in a very long while.

* * *

><p>The next four days came and went in much the same way. Sherlock explaining very little to John, having very little patience to do so, seemingly wrapped up in taking care of his new charge; making her feel a little bit more stable in her metaphorical footing, frequently preparing meals and sitting close enough to touch, allowing her to lean on him, legs pressed side by side or occasionally intertwining fingers.<p>

It was now John's turn to feel like he was observing the four-headed monster. Sherlock didn't act this way with anybody. He'd even refused a few simple cases in preference to doddering around this girl, or woman, that John had come to think of as a stray. And he still hadn't the vaguest idea why Sherlock found her so captivating – surely it must be something he missed. Sherlock certainly wasn't being very forthcoming. They curled up together at night, but despite that and the close physical contact during the day, he could see no romantic attachment. So what in the world was going on?

He found his break on the fifth day, when a case came up that Sherlock just couldn't say no to. He still looked toward her hesitantly as he prepared to leave the flat.

"I won't be long, you know. Few hours at the most." His eyes played over her quickly, a brief glimpse of worry in them, before he turned to fetch his scarf.

She smiled, somewhat feebly, and shook her head at him, "You're being silly, I'll be fine." She glanced up at John who'd been sitting eating his breakfast and reading the paper. He readily put it down, feeling something was expected of him.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I'll be here if... she needs anything?" the last bit coming out more as a question as John was still in the dark about who she was or what she might possibly need.

"Call me if … well, anything … yes?" he raised his eyebrow until both their heads nodded in agreement. Seemingly content, he spun around, bounded down the stairs and out the front door.

"Good to see him so happy," she remarked, "I was starting to worry."

"Yeah, me too, he's certainly not been himself lately – not that you're, um - that... uh... Dammit, sorry, that came out wrong."

She stifled a chuckle. "No, you've been beyond patient with me, John; don't think I'm not grateful. I've been here taking up space and offering no reason for it for nearly a week. I'm sure you've got a load of questions you'd like answered. Go ahead; I'll do my best to answer what I can for you."

John felt a mild blush work its way up his neck, feeling a bit churlish for wanting to know details; but she was right, she'd been here a while with no explanation, and now she was offering a free Q&A session; who was he to turn it down?

"Well, um, you and Sherlock: related?"

"No, not exactly in the way you might think. Birds of a feather, more like."

"So the 'one of her own kind' remark?"

She looked a bit puzzled, unable to recall that particular comment. "No, nothing to do with blood relation, though I must say, I would find it refreshing."

"Are you," he looked down quickly, blushing and coughing briefly, before glancing back up, "involved, um, then?" The nervous awkwardness of having posed such a personal question nearly radiated from him, his eyes dropping back to examine the table.

She reached over the table, smiling, ducking her head a bit to catch his downcast gaze while gently taking his hand in hers. "No," she smiled, "definitely not. Even if he was interested, I'm sure he'd think it a gross misuse of power given the state I'm in."

John's heart thudded a bit; she'd allowed him to get close to the crux of the question he most wanted to ask.

"Which is?" he breathed, barely able to voice his query, and still feeling overly-invasive merely for asking, but so far she hadn't seemed to mind…

"I'm broken, John. Thoroughly and utterly broken. And the worst part is: I did it to myself."

He raised his gaze to take in her face, confusion playing over his features. She smiled half-heartedly at him.

"I'm one of his own: a sociopath, related, in a way, just by the way our brains work. You don't get many of us around here. At least well behaved ones with a code of ethics – not necessarily the same ethics as the rest of the population, or at least not for the same reasons; but with rules we live by that allow us to get by in society.

"Most of the ones you will have read about have poor impulse control and end up in prison – what Sherlock would define as a low-functioning, and probably with a well-deserved sneer.

"He uses the terms high- and low-functioning, whereas I go by ethical and unethical, but essentially we're saying the same thing. I'd be amongst those with a unique code of ethics, but like I said, I'm broken."

"So you're in the criminal classes now?" John looked up, still uncertain.

"Not at all. A high-functioning sociopath doesn't become broken and suddenly discard all their guiding principles to become some low-functioning immediate gratification idiot.

"When I say I'm broken, I mean I can't filter out the emotions anymore. You've lived with him long enough to know that we're not entirely without them. We just prefer to mute those we have – to distance ourselves from them; and to allow ourselves to feel more than just a passing amount toward only a very few people. You're one of his special few. Count yourself lucky. He trusts you and that _does not_ come easy to us. He'd kill or die for you, John, because once we trust, we're beyond what you'd ever imagine as loyal. People who 'get' us, focus us, in some ways tether us to humanity without trying to change who we fundamentally are – you're rare. We couldn't function without you. Don't _ever_ take advantage of that – it'd kill him." He wasn't sure, but felt there might be a vague threat couched in her final sentence.

"Why can't you filter it out anymore? And why say you're broken because of it? Lots of us 'normal folk' live like that every day. We're not broken, surely."

She shook her head. "No, you're not broken, but you are also not without filters. I bet you see our type as remote, aloof, beyond that of normal humanity. We are untouchable, right? That's how we come off, I know it; it's part of our armor.

"Have you ever stopped to consider that the regular masses are quite more well-equipped to deal with things than we are? We're actually rather fragile. Our defense mechanisms are learned when we're quite young, usually due to some neglect or abuse, sometimes both, not always from the same source."

John shifted in his chair. Her manner while explaining this was uncomfortably off-handed. Who could discuss neglect or abuse, especially their own, in such a matter-of-fact, clinical way? Well, Sherlock, for one, he guessed. Still, he was unsure if this is something he really wanted to know about his friend.

"While other children have parents to intercede to help protect and teach them what things to give heed to and what not; for whatever reason, those who were supposed to serve that function for us, weren't available, or possibly were sociopaths themselves and we modeled ourselves on them. We learned early on that our only mode of protection is to distance ourselves from every emotion, to filter all of them; only to let in a trickle - we're overwhelmed otherwise."

"You said you did it to yourself? You weren't always this way?"

"No. I wasn't. And yes, I did. An impractical thing to do now that I look back on it, and based on faulty logic but it seemed the only proper course of action at the time, and I have paid the price for it more times than I can count; which is why I now need Sherlock, and not for any mystery. Only someone who's come up in a similar manner can possibly fathom what it's like not to be able to filter anything anymore; to have the floodgates open on you. He's been wonderful to me, but I think I may have scared him a bit. We like to think we're distanced: safe. To be reminded that we're not all that far removed from catastrophic failure is unsettling at best."

She paused a moment, listening, glancing at the clock, startled by how quickly the time had sped by. "The door. I think we'd best continue this some other time. As for me, I'm feeling pretty exhausted. Again.

"You're the doctor," she cocked an eye at him, "does one ever get their strength back after a breakdown, John?"

"I'm really not that type of doctor, but yes, I would think so, eventually."

"Good." She shot a smile at him then padded off to Sherlock's bedroom.

Moments later, Sherlock bounded into the room, removing his scarf and quickly scanning the room. The look of elation following the successful conclusion of an interesting case quickly fled his face as he noted John alone at the table.

"What happened?" he demanded, "You said you'd call if…"

"Nothing happened," John broke in, "we just talked for a while then she got tired. She's just gone off to bed."

"Did she eat?"

"Um, no, not that I noticed. Did _you_ eat, Sherlock?" he asked, concerned for his friend.

"Of course not," he said dismissively, tossing his coat and scarf on the chair and making for the bedroom.

* * *

><p>She seemed to improve over the next few weeks, outwardly stronger somehow; starting to do more for herself and in less frequent need of physical contact, though they still curled up together at night.<p>

About two weeks after their initial contact, she sank down next to Sherlock on the couch, touching his leg slightly to get his attention.

"I think it's time I go."

His bluish-grey gaze travelled over her. "You don't have to, you know."

"Yes, I do. I've imposed long enough."

"Do you have someplace to go?"

"Not yet, but I'm resourceful. I'll find something."

He didn't doubt it, but said instead, "Two days, two more days, then okay."

She simply nodded and leaned against him for a moment before she rose and made her way to bed.

He flicked open his mobile and typed:

_Need your assistance. Sadly, not dinner.  
>- SH<em>

A few seconds later, a breathy moan from his phone let him know his request would be considered, and half a dozen texts later, everything was set.

* * *

><p>Two days later, she, Sherlock and John stood outside a very comfortable-looking country cottage. It was very isolated, but as Sherlock explained, deliveries of anything she needed could be made from the nearest town and train station, ten miles away.<p>

The quietude seemed to suit her well: she looked more visibly relaxed than either of them had ever seen her.

Certain that her pantry was full and that she had the all the handful of numbers she might possibly need, they left.

The ride to the station was quiet, Sherlock immersed in thought.

They boarded the train, found a nearly empty compartment and gazed out the window as they began the journey home. John cleared his throat. Twice.

"Yes, John?"

"It's just… what exactly was that? I mean, she and I talked some time ago, I know you believe she's like you, but she said she was broken? She never elaborated very much on that. How do you 'break' a sociopath?"

Sherlock cleared his own throat, casting his gaze down. "You don't. Unless it's self-inflicted, like hers. She sought to protect a few people, people whom I richly doubt deserved any such consideration, from herself. She believed it was her or them, and was unwilling to do something she believed against her own code."

"Which was?" his eyes crinkled, waiting for the response.

"Kill them, or possibly crush them, dismantle their lives, she could have easily done either; if she had and had I been called in on it, I may have let her slip by. The world could do with fewer of the sort she had to deal with.

"As it was, she found the only way to protect them, was to open herself up; to release the floodgates, as she said. We're not equipped to deal with that, however, and once those are thrown open, we can't ever fully close them again. I know of no one who would willingly do that to themselves.

"But she thought if she could feel for them, for their relations, for anyone who might care for them, she couldn't bring herself to harm them. However, it also prevented her from doing what she needed to do to protect herself. And by protecting them, she simply opened herself up to more abuse, abuse that continued and intensified until she simply couldn't manage anymore. She came to me just in time."

"In time?"

"To salvage whatever might be left. She's come a long way from what she was when she first appeared, John, she's stronger now, but she'll never be what she once was. "

"So why did we avoid a therapist?"

"You don't heal a sociopath by getting them to feel their emotions, John. That was the problem. She needed time to start to be able to insulate herself again, and a safe place in which to do it, where all her energy wasn't expended in protecting herself against those she was with.

"Once upon a time, she was a magnificent example of who we can be, what we can accomplish; if you look hard enough you can still see the traces. But no matter how much care we take in piecing her back together again, those cracks will always be there. She'll never be what she was. And that is tragedy.

"To damage oneself in order to save those who are truly unworthy of such sacrifice might be misguided and, honestly, stupid, which she has come to admit, but it is noble. I can't deny that."

The remainder of the ride was passed in silence. John staring out the window at the passing scenery, Sherlock leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled against his lips, lost in thought.

He didn't seem to notice once they'd arrived at their station, John having to rouse him from his train of thought and bundle him into the cab. As they arrived home, John hopped out, holding the door for Sherlock, who merely waved him on.

"Go on, John, I'll join you in a few days. There are a few things I must attend to, now that we're back."

John shut the door but leaned in the window just as the cab began to pull away, a doubtful look on his face.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm not nearly so noble, John." The cab pulled back into traffic leaving John on the curb, looking both worried and nonplussed.

Sherlock was gone for nearly a week, during which John kept a careful eye on the papers, anxious about what his friend might consider justice, but nothing appeared which raised any alarm bells; though he briefly wondered if Sherlock ever did perpetrate something, if it would raise any suspicion whatsoever. He determinedly brushed that notion from his mind.

Upon hearing his friend's returning step upon the stair, he determined never to inquire about it.

* * *

><p>Months went by before she was even mentioned again. Whereupon Sherlock merely suggested a trip to the country might be nice for a change. It was so out of the ordinary for Sherlock that John knew immediately where they were heading.<p>

They arrived on a blissfully beautiful day to find her painting a canvas, outside. She'd done the same landscape in about thirteen different styles, she blushed balefully at their arrival.

"Just an experiment," she explained. "I'm capable of my own style as well."

"No, no, I like these," said John, carefully examining the top two; a Van Gogh and a Cezanne imitation.

"Sherlock! How've you been?" she asked, taking a few steps away.

"Fine." He tilted his head, "And you?"

"Better. Increasingly better thanks to you … and Irene. She visits sometimes."

"Does she?"

"Yes, mostly quiet visits. We read, or paint, sometimes walk. It's pleasant."

Sherlock stepped behind her, draping his arms over and across her protectively, giving a small squeeze.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly.

"Hm?"

"Don't ever do it. You've got John; Mrs. Hudson; the inspector… a few, that's fine. It's good – healthy even. You've got the trickle and just slightly more where you need it. _But don't. **Don't ever, ever, **open the floodgates_. You'll drown."

She turned slightly, looking at him with a mixture of great concern and some fear.

He stared down into her eyes, quietly purposeful; turned her back around, tightened his embrace from behind and placed a quick peck on top of her head.

"Don't worry," he said, his mouth pressing itself into a fine line, "I won't."

* * *

><p>AN: I know it seems like a strange place to leave it, but for them, it's a good ending.  
>Like I said before, not my best work, but I'd still be interested in what you've got to say. Thanks!<p>

Thanks for reading! I can be found on Tumblr as BesinaAo3

Please do not repost or distribute this work on any other site.  
>For translation permissions, please see my AO3 profile - username Besina<p> 


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